


Couture In The Closet

by revanchistsuperstar



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Femme Crowley, Gender Issues, Gender Roles, Genderfluid, Genderqueer, Honestly femme Crowley just fucks me the fuck up so I had to fic, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 04:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revanchistsuperstar/pseuds/revanchistsuperstar
Summary: Angels and demons don't have genders, but humans have conventions, and though Crowley has never been one much for conventions himself, he  worries perhaps Aziraphale might be. But then during a bit of a snog, Aziraphale notices something hanging in Crowley's closet...





	Couture In The Closet

_“I want to see it on you.”_

Standing before a mirror in his bedroom, a few choice swear words mumbled now and again beneath his breath, Crowley was fussing and pulling at the garment that insufferable twat of angel had of course just _had_ to have noticed on its hanger in the closet, replaying the sentence again and again in his head. _Want._ Of course he’d have to say _want._ It was to be true a rather special garment, even to Crowley, who in general had no attachment to the cloth contraptions humans used to cover their naked flesh, not like Aziraphale did at least (for though it had taken Crowley far longer than he’d probably be wont to admit to notice that his companion had been wearing the same waistcoat for last century and a half, he’d caught on by the 1990s at the very least, and at that point it just seemed kinder to the angel to not say anything about it). That was why Aziraphale had noticed it after all.

They’d been boxing up Crowley’s flat (preparing for what was probably an ill advised co-habitation following a snog that had been many thousand years in the making) and the task was so mind-numbingly arduous that _of course_ Crowley had began to drink, which meant _of course_ Aziraphale had gotten in a good whinge about being left out and joined in, and then they’d ended up abandoning the packing efforts all together, flopping onto Crowley’s bed more or less firmly attached at the mouth, but before they’d gotten much past the kind of groping teenagers got at in back alleys, _of course_ Aziraphale had randomly taken a glance over in the direction of the closet and brought the proceedings to a full stop with his hand half way up Crowley’s shirt.

“What’s that?” he’d said, genuinely curious, and Crowley in turn was genuinely perplexed as to what he could be asking about.

“What’s what?” he’d replied, more than a little peevish as Aziraphale had climbed off him and the bed, and was now crossing over to the closet. Crowley had been enjoying himself, you see, and he didn’t brook well to disappointment. But then Aziraphale had lifted the garment out of the closet and began to brandish it, obviously delighted.

For the garment in question was a dress. Or, more properly put, a gown. And a beautiful one at that.

Now for angels, and demons, and in particular demons like Crowley who had once been angels, gender and how they related to it was a bit of a fiddly subject. As a rule, they did not _have_ genders, but when it came to manifesting physically in the human world there were these tricky things called bodies, and it hadn’t taken any angel (or demon) with a body a terribly long time to realize that the humans they interacted with seemed to have a great deal of conventions attached to the outward appearance of these bodies. Crowley had of course never really strictly adhered to conventions, so in the earlier days he’d more or less just worn what pleased him. And Aziraphale and never really… said anything as such, but Crowley had begun to notice sometime around the end of the Roman Empire that the angel was far more… _conventional_ that he was. And as much as that made sense, as of course Aziraphale was an angel, and he, Crowley, was a demon, it began to niggle at him. And bit by bit, Crowley had decided perhaps he ought to be more conventional as well, and save for a short episode in Berlin during the earliest part of the 20th century, conventional he was.

That had been before Nanny of course. To be sure, it was different with her, because she served a purpose and looked the way she did as a kind of means to an end, but she’d awoken something in Crowley that he’d forgotten about. It wasn’t so much the changes he’d made to his figure or the hats or even the lipstick, those things he could take or leave. But dresses. Skirts. Stockings. Heels. Through Nanny, Crowley had realized that the look and feel of these were something he enjoyed on himself, conventional be damned. And so, on the occasional weekend, Crowley and his dresses found themselves in various establishments in South London where this sort of thing seemed to be more or less normal, and of course, Aziraphale had been none the wiser. 

The gown that Aziraphale had spotted in Crowley’s closet was one that he’d actually never worn before, something he’d been saving for a special occasion that had never really presented itself. It had been designed for Crowley personally by a man named McQueen who’d left the Earth in rather a tragic fashion, and as such Crowley thought it ought to be treated with a bit more respect than the garments he simply willed into being of his own accord. It was a stunning creation of structured corsetry juxtaposed with flowing gauzes and embroidered lace, and it was of course black from head to toe, save for a few flashes of red snakeskin in the construction of the bodice. Watching Aziraphale grab hold of it, Crowley had felt a sick jolt of dread that he couldn’t exactly place. Judging by the giddiness in his angel’s voice this fear was entirely unwarranted, but it also simply wouldn’t go away, and Crowley felt his ears and face starting to go annoyingly hot.

“Crowley is this yours!?” Aziraphale had exclaimed, entirely oblivious to his partner’s turmoil. “It’s absolutely beautiful! I haven’t seen you in anything like this in ages, not since…”

“Cleopatra, most likely,” Crowley answered tonelessly, thinking back to the last time he’d worn anything so flashy in the angel’s presence.

Aziraphale smiled fondly.

“Those Ptolemies did have such flair, didn’t they?” he said, wistful. Crowley didn’t reply. He’d been too busy hiding his face in his hands, trying to will the awful pit that had opened in his stomach to go take up residence someplace else. Still oblivious to this, Aziraphale soldiered on. “Would you put it on for me? I want to see it on you.”

Panic seized Crowley then, and he snapped his head up, hands falling to his lap.

“Why?” he said harshly, far more harshly that he’d wanted to. Aziraphale looked surprised at this reaction. Surprised and slightly wounded.

“Oh, I… Well no reason really… I just thought…” Crowley’s expression must have softened at this point, because Aziraphale’s smile returned, lighting up his face in a way that never failed to make Crowley’s entire being flood with warmth and fluttery feelings. “Oh, darling, you will?”

“Fine, yes. Just… give me a bit of privacy to get changed, okay?”

Aziraphale waggled his eyebrows at his lover in a knowing way, the sort of way that said “we both know you don’t need privacy to change as I’ve seen you incredibly naked, but I’m humoring you because you asked” and his smile widened with affection as he approached the bed, handing the gown over to Crowley.

“Thank you,” he said gently, kissing Crowley on the forehead before leaving the room. The heat in Crowley’s face and ears flared once again, and he stared down at the dress that was now in his hands. Well. This was certainly happening.

He donned the gown and stood before the mirror, frowning at himself all the while. It was spectacular, there was no denying that, and it fit him and flattered him perfectly, the corsetry doing its job quite splendidly. The neckline was high on Crowley’s throat, making him look almost regal, and the voluminous sleeves were cut in such a way that they draped and left his shoulders exposed, putting the freckles he had so many of on full display. Were Crowley alone and preparing himself for an utterly anonymous night out, he probably would have been quite pleased with his appearance. But he wasn’t. There was someone waiting for him in his living room, and that terrified Crowley to no end. But there was nothing to be done for it. Aziraphale _wanted_ to see him like this. Or at least, he thought he did.

Crowley sighed and looked to his bare feet, which suddenly weren’t bare anymore, but clad in simple black boots with a substantial heel, and then to his ears, which now both glinted with golden snakes wrapping through the holes he’d had pierced there so long ago. Then, with one final look in the mirror, Crowley ran his hands through his hair, which now cascaded past his shoulders in coppery waves. He breathed in and out deeply, trying to steady himself. There was no getting out of this. His angel was waiting.

Aziraphale’s reaction when he saw Crowley exit the bedroom was both immediate, and for Crowley, completely unexpected. The angel’s mouth fell slightly open, seemingly without his permission, and his hand flew up to it. He tried to form a few sentences, but couldn’t seem to get the words out. The angel was completely and utterly in awe

“What do you think?”Crowley asked, shier than he’d ever heard himself sound. Aziraphale’s eyes began to shine, despite the fact that he was smiling a wide and particularly incandescent smile, and seeing that made Crowley laugh nervously in spite of himself. Aziraphale closed the distance between them very quickly then, lifting Crowley up off the ground and much to the demon’s surprise, spinning him round in a circle.

“My darling, you look absolutely breathtaking,” Aziraphale said tenderly, placing Crowley back down on the ground, and reaching up to his face, touching it gently. And when Aziraphale kissed him then, Crowley was pretty sure his chest was seconds away from exploding. The angel pulled away, but kept his face very close, his hands now gently tracing the locks that framed Crowley’s face.“Why haven’t you let me see you like this?”

“I thought you wouldn’t like it,” Crowley confessed, both to Aziraphale and himself simultaneously.

“I do like it though,” Aziraphale insisted. “Crowley, I… You look so beautiful. And I’ve missed your hair like this.”

“Well that’s all right then. Maybe I’ll keep it this way.”

Azirphale smiled and laughed, running his fingers still through the curls, looking at Crowley like he was the sun and the moon and all of the stars in the sky, even the ones in Alpha Centauri.

“Well I know we had other plans a few moments ago,” he said, a bit of an impish quality beginning to make its way into his smile. “But might I tempt you to a night out on the town?”

“Temptation fucking accomplished,” Crowley breathed, and he kissed Aziraphale as hard as he could manage, all the nervousness and fear he’d been experiencing now firmly gone and replaced instead by the most passionate, intense feelings of love. When he pulled away, Aziraphale eyes were slightly dreamy and unfocused, and he was slightly dazed as he spoke.

“Is the Royal Vauxhall Tavern still as lively as it was after the war?” he mused, and Crowley couldn’t help but bark out a laugh.

“Oh, angel. Just you wait and see.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by all the beautiful artwork of Femme Crowley I keep seeing on Tumblr now that the Good Omens show has aired. I headcanon Crowley as genderfluid SO HARD, so I couldn't wait to get my little genderqueer hands all over a story like this. And then earlier today, myself and my friend Lenee were talking about Femme Crowley and over the course of our conversation, inspiration struck.  
> So now we have a fic.  
> Enjoy.


End file.
